


for i must hold my tongue

by postcardmystery



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12th December 1985</p><p>He who says it first loses. Bet?</p><p>g</p>
            </blockquote>





	for i must hold my tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for mental illness, breakdown, discussion of suicide.

**12th March, 2002**  
  
Dear Sir/Madam/person who must hope I never meet them in a darkened alleyway,  
  
I would say that I regret that you did not enjoy my  _Revenger's Tragedy_ , but I do not, and if I begin with lies I would have to also inform you that I believe you come across as well-educated, passionate about theatre, and in possession of a large penis. (Delete as applicable, no one will ever say that Geoffrey Tennant isn't equal opportunity. Yes, I caught that inference, and no, I'm not amused. You can tell Darren that I know it was him who told you, and he should thank his lucky stars he's still in Munich.)  
  
Where was I? Oh, yes. Tragically, your review gave the impression that you believe yourself to have understood this play. Possibly you did, but only if you have access to an alternate version that either Middleton did not write, or else disowned outright. (If so, call the Globe. You've got a few million on your hands.) But as I am entirely sure that you do not, allow me to point something out to you: the clue is in the title. I feel like you were probably confused about the fact that this play is a bloody and bleak exploration of vengeance, but as it is the  _title_ , I am at a loss as to how. You did not like the fact that people died on stage? Then you were in attendance at the  _wrong theatre_.  
  
Tell Darren a bet's a bet, and two can play at that game. Yours, in hatred and infinite loathing,  
  
GT  
  
  
  
  
 **25th June 2009**  
  
to: m.f.henlon@rsc.co.uk  
  
from: ad@theatresansargent.com  
  
  
I don't care if you're the Artistic Director of the RSC, if you ever again suggest in print that Oliver Welles's vision of Macbeth was superior to mine I shall find you and rip your fingers off with red hot pokers.  
  
Nobody who cannot even stage a monologue without resorting to setting half the stage on fire is worthy of a sign off. (Addendum-- I'll be in London in November. Do not be.)  
  
  
  
  
 **12th May 2003**  
  
Dear Basil,  
  
you called me a  _postmodernist_. You said my Hamlet was a fine example of  _post-dramatic theatre_. You compared me to  _Heiner Müller_. I can't think of anything to match that. I think even making the attempt is beneath me.  
  
Fuck you,  
  
Geoffrey Tennant  
  
P.S. I know this was Darren's fault. Fuck him, too.  
  
P.P.S. Tell him to reply to my fucking letters, for fuck's sake.  
  
  
  
  
 **17th November 1986**  
  
D,  
  
No flashpots, idiot. Stop trying. The set design looks adequate, but I'm not painting anything red, I remember the last time. I said I'd play Alceste if I didn't have to wear a wig, and that looks suspiciously like a wig. It had better not by the time I get back, or by God something's getting set on fire, and it'll be something you're fond of. Professor D'Argento said no to full-frontal nudity, which I am telling you solely because I know how such petit bourgeoisie objections infuriate you. Also, you stole my favourite pair of socks. Fucker.  
  
G  
  
  
  
  
 **6th January 2011**  
  
I don't care if you write for the New York Times, now, Basil, I was not nor have ever been 'a twink in a dress.'  
  
I don't care if Darren says he has pictures. He doesn't. Don't make me spend my ramen money on suing you. You've met me, I'll do it.  
  
Oh, for fuck's sake-- Anna says hello. I do not say hello. I say 'I still know where you live and I stole four rapiers from the New Burbage Theatre Festival.'  
  
Anna confirmed it. Fuck off, Basil, there's a good man.  
  
  
  
  
 **9th August 1996**  
  
Why, yes, Oliver, I really did want press clippings of the role that sent me spiralling into a manic break, thank you ever so much, that was very helpful. My doctor says that if you write to me again she'll slip it to the press that you were coercing me to take cocaine for 'realism.' She's actually the only woman I've ever met who's scarier than. Ha. Look. Almost wrote it. Fuck you for making me try.  
  
Just leave me alone. It's not hard. You've done it for six months already.  
  
  
  
  
 **3rd January 1987**  
  
D,  
  
Now will you believe I wasn't wrong about the fire? Stop making that face, I just went out to get food that I didn't have to steal from the nurse's station. (I say 'steal.' They take pity on us and our actor's physiques, shall we say.) Destroy this before your unfortunate progenitors arrive, because-- I'm not fucking you if you're going to insist on drawing your eyebrows back on. Pretentious you are, Marcel Duchamp you are not.  
  
Never fucking scare me like that again. You are such a bastard.  
  
G  
  
  
  
  
 **18th April 2009**  
  
to: richard.smith-jones@nbtfestival.com  
  
from: ad@theatresansargent.com  
  
  
 _Brecht_? You're trying to tempt me back with Epic Theatre? Jesus. I knew you were stupid, Richard, I didn't think you were  _fucking_  stupid.  
  
Ask Darren what I did to the last person who actually tried to make me touch the cover of a copy of  _Mother Courage_. Actually, don't, because then he'll tell you and I don't want a mere second-hand description of the way your face crumples.  
  
I'm coming to Darren's piss-take of a 'musical' in a week. I'm telling you this because if I see you the entire time I'm there, there is going to be a repeat of the Great Caryl Churchill Debacle of '88. That one you can ask Darren about, but only if you tell him that if he makes me sit any closer than five rows back from the stage, I will get onto it and start screaming. (Actually, he already knew that, but I wanted  _you_  to know, Richard, because I'm magnanimous like that.)  
  
I'm bringing Anna with me. She's still not very happy with you. Actually, I don't know of a better threat than that, so I shan't make one. Tell Darren I want my boots back, he knows the ones, and if there's glitter on them all bets are off. (Including that one. He knows which one.)  
  
The man who is never going to be your artistic director even if the Bard himself asked me,  
  
Geoffrey Tennant  
  
  
  
  
 **6th July 2012**  
  
to: darren.nichols@nbtfestival.com  
  
from: ad@theatresansargent.com  
  
  
she's divorcing me. or me her, i don't know, what difference does it make. if you're in fucking berlin again i don't know what i'll do but it'll be very loud. you win the bet. okay? bastard. i abandoned capitalisation for you, the least you can do is pick up the phone.  
  
  
  
 **7th July 2012**  
  
to: darren.nichols@nbtfestival.com  
  
from: ad@theatresansargent.com  
  
  
 _Such is my love, to thee I so belong/That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong._  
  
if the answer's no just fucking tell me darren i'm an adult. jesus christ.  
  
  
  
  
 **25th February 1995**  
  
Basil,  
  
of course I was a better Antony than Burton. Burton wouldn't know subtlety if it hit him in the face. Compare me to that hack Branagh one more time and I will not be responsible for my actions. We're doing _Hamlet_  next, so you can stop calling Anna, you're driving her insane. Even think the word 'Olivier' and I'll strangely 'miss' during the duel.  
  
Yours, in boredom and distaste,  
  
Geoffrey Tennant  
  
  
  
  
 **7th July 2012**  
  
to: ad@theatresansargent.com  
  
from: darren.nichols@nbtfestival.com  
  
  
for fuck's sake geoffrey i am sending this from a plane bathroom and if i die because of you i hope you realise that there is a clause in my will that means you inherit all of my german language theatre paraphernalia. yes. that is what fear of the divine feels like, and fucking calm down i'll be there in twelve hours. if you kill yourself i'm outing us to the entire eastern seaboard, how's about that for a threat?  
  
put the razor down, eat a fucking meal, and laugh at branagh's prince hal, i know how you like that.  
  
right there's an fucking shit i'm about to get arrested for terrorism don't these people know who i am fucking hell geoffrey you'll be the death of me  
  
  
  
  
 **12th December 1985**  
  
He who says it first loses. Bet?  
  
g  
  
  
  
  
 **9th July 2012**  
  
to: richard.smith-jones@nbtfestival.com  
  
from: darren.nichols@nbtfestival.com  
  
  
Fuck you and your tarted-up excuse for a theatre festival. I'm moving to London. I want to direct musicals somewhere they have heard of Sondheim. Oh, and Geoffrey's coming with me. He says he just wants you to imagine him smiling. Personally, I can't wait to talk to other people who have heard of Bakhtin. I know you don't know who that is. Don't try and use Google, you know you don't understand it, and you won't understand Russian Formalism, either.  
  
That was my resignation, by the way. Goodbye, Richard. I'd say that I would miss you, but I won't. Don't call me, I won't answer. (But Geoffrey might.)  
  
  
  
  
 **4th February 2013**  
  
to: m.f.henlon@rsc.co.uk  
  
from: ad@theatresansargent.com  
  
  
I have no idea why, but yes. You'd better have a job for Darren, too. He likes fire as much as you do, I'm sure you'll get on.  
  
I want  _The Tempest_  first, or I'm not coming. Also no one is to call Darren my husband where I can overhear them. I don't care if your ridiculous country actually let us make that momentously foolish and terrible decision, those are my demands and frankly they're a lot less than anyone else would make so I expect them fulfilled.  
  
GT  
  
  
  
  
 **13th December 1985**  
  
It won't be me. I hope you like Brecht. Oh, wait.  
  
d


End file.
